


Once in a While

by Jezunya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pet Names, Sickfic, terms of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jezunya/pseuds/Jezunya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sick Sherlock brings out the mother hen in John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once in a While

**Author's Note:**

> This idea struck me an hour or two ago, and then all these words appeared. It was originally intended to be a very very short little teeny tiny tumblr fic, but, uh, oops. 
> 
> Neither beta'd nor Britpicked; all mistakes are my own.

Wounded Sherlock brings out the surgeon in John – hands sure and steady, directions brisk without being overly terse or snappish. Wounded Sherlock whinges and grimaces and glares at the wall behind John’s head rather than accept any significant anaesthetic, as though gritting his teeth through the pain of stitches is some two-fingered salute to the universe and its paltry attempts to lay the great detective low. Wounded Sherlock makes John shake his head and scowl and scold and insist, once again, that he not go haring off on his own when they know the suspect is bloody well armed. Wounded Sherlock makes John want to tear his hair out, makes him want to take his friend by the shoulders and shake him until whatever insane death wish is rattling about in that skull of his finally comes flying loose.

Sick Sherlock, however, brings out the mother hen in John.

“Are you warm enough, love?” John asks, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull the duvet closer about Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.

“Mmph,” the Sherlock-shaped mound replies, and John can see him curling up further beneath the many layers of bedclothes. “By doze are code.”

It takes him a moment to translate that from Stuffed Nose back into English. “Have you got socks on?”

The guilty silence is all John needs to hear. He considers braving the dreaded Sock Index for only a moment before making up his mind. “I’ll be back in just a minute, honey, all right?” He gently pats the duvet where he’s fairly sure Sherlock’s shoulder should be, then slips out of the room to jog up the stairs to his own bedroom.

A nice, thick pair of army issue boot socks would be just the thing, John decides, glad not for the first time that he’d invested in a supply of the woolly monstrosities before going on deployment. Most people think of Afghanistan as a hot, barren desert, but the truth is there were nights in the wintertime, or up in the mountains, that got cold enough to freeze a man’s balls off. By comparison, London is a temperate paradise – but that means little to someone with a thirty-nine degree fever. He selects the least worn of the lot and descends the stairs once more, just in time to hear Sherlock feebly calling his name from the bedroom. 

“Right here, sweetie,” John says, pushing past the half-open door and brandishing the rolled material in his hand. “Just went to get you some warm socks.”

One silvered eye focuses on him from between puffy duvet and sweat-dampened curls, possibly trying for shrewd suspicion but looking like nothing so much as a drowned kitten. John smiles and slides onto the bed next to Sherlock once more, flipping the edge of the duvet over his own legs so that he can root around under the blankets to find Sherlock’s icy feet.

And icy they are – they both hiss at the touch, John in sympathy at the frankly frigid external temperature of the aforementioned toes, and Sherlock likely from the painful prickle of contact with fever-sensitised flesh.

“Sorry, love,” John whispers sincerely, quickly unrolling the socks to pull them over Sherlock’s chilled extremities and then setting to work rubbing some warmth into them with his hands. “There you are, dearheart.”

Sherlock sighs, relaxing into his mountain of pillows after a minute of the impromptu foot massage, and John smiles again.

“Better?”

Sherlock nods vaguely, then says, “You dever call me dat.” The words are followed by a loud, angry sniffle – John never knew a sniffle could be used to convey anger, but if anyone could do it, it would be Sherlock Holmes. “Ohdly wed I’m ill.” He grimaces again, and adds, “Add wed you’re ah— arou— Wed you’re horny.”

John pauses, his hands stilling against Sherlock’s wool-clad feet as he mentally wills himself not to laugh. Sick Sherlock might be an adorably pliant and helpless Sherlock, but he will still not respond well if he thinks he’s being mocked. “What’s that then?” John asks, and manages to keep all but the barest hint of a smile from his voice.

“All dese _ehdearments_. _Pet dames_.”

He will not laugh. He will not smile. He will not tell Sherlock how ridiculously precious he sounds with clogged sinuses, not if he doesn’t want to wake up with his eyebrows shaved off as soon as the consulting detective is well again.

“Sorry,” John says again, even sounds mostly sincere, and Sherlock pulls his feet away to tuck them closer up by the rest of him. John takes that as his cue to return to the head of the bed, and he settles down on his side with one elbow propping him up, facing Sherlock. “Didn’t even realise I was doing it. I’ll try to pay better attention, if it annoys you.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally, his eyes sliding shut, and if John hadn’t already been convinced of how sick he is, the fact that he doesn't take the opportunity to comment on John’s attention span would have been all the evidence he needed.

He reaches out, pushes damply curling fringe back from sweat-beaded forehead. “How about I promise to only ever call you those when we’re at home, and never in public?”

This earns him a more thoughtful hum and a turning head to afford John’s stroking fingers more access to his hair. “You could,” Sherlock says then, voice soft and mumbling, almost a sigh. “Id public. Once id a while. Where Adderson add Donovan can hear.”

John doesn’t fight the gentle smile that spreads across his face now, doesn’t hesitate to cup Sherlock’s jaw in his palm and sweep his thumb lightly over one flushed cheekbone. “I’ll do that then, love,” he says softly, and is rewarded with a curling smile at the edge of those perfect lips, a look of utter contentment on Sherlock’s face as he drops back into sleep.

This Sherlock, rarest of all the different forms John has encountered in their time together, this warm, vulnerable, even what John might dare to call _cuddly_ Sherlock – this Sherlock never fails to bring an ache to John’s chest, a softening in his heart and a catch in his throat. This Sherlock brings out in John all the best parts of him – the desire to protect, to heal, and, above all, to ensure that he and everyone else know just how much he is loved.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://jezunya.tumblr.com/)


End file.
